


Not an Idiot

by Tahlruil



Series: Winding Roads to Flowering Fields [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence after S3, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, POV Sheriff Stilinski, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Season/Series 03, Pre-Slash, Scott McCall is a Bad Alpha, Scott McCall is a Bad Friend, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Parent, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, he's doing his best okay, i didn't mean to write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 09:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tahlruil/pseuds/Tahlruil
Summary: Maybe in some places an idiot could get elected Sheriff - not in a town like Beacon Hills. Dumb deputies (or just very unlucky ones) tended to die before they got the chance to try to move up the ranks. So John Stilinski isn't an idiot even if he (on occasion) chooses not to see the whole picture. Stiles is getting better and he's grateful - he just wishes that maybe it was someone else getting his kid get there.Even though it's not the smartest move, he calls a friend about it.He's not an idiot, okay, he's not. He just... needs a little help, and who better to help with a werewolf problem than an Argent?





	Not an Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the middle of writing a super fluffy fic won in an auction for a whole other fandom and this demanded to be written.
> 
> So I stayed up all night and did. Don't know where most of it came from, I'd lost control before it even began.
> 
> Hope it's at least someone enjoyable despite that and the fact that it is un-beta'd and pretty much un-edited.
> 
> I'm behind in replying to comments, but I'd love if you left me some on this fic anyway. <3

John Stilinski wasn't an idiot.

Sometimes he was willfully blind when it came to Stiles, he knew that. And not knowing about the supernatural element in Beacon Hills had hindered his ability to do his job, absolutely. He hadn't been able to see all the pieces, and he would never forgive himself for not believing his son when Stiles had tried to show him. Once he'd known, however, once he'd _believed_ , John had taken immediate steps to fill the gap in his knowledge. He was no fool, after all, and neither was he ready to leave the safety of the town and its residents in the hands of a bunch of sixteen year old children.

Chris Argent had been the obvious choice, and in the months between their capture by the Darech and Allison's death they had become close. Chris taught him about wolfsbane - its varieties and uses, how to grow it, where to buy it - and mountain ash. It had been Chris who taught him how to get both into bullet form and the man had then given him tips on how to adjust the way he shot to account for the different way those bullets flew. Chris had offered him books and when John had pointed out that he didn't have a lot of time to read, the Hunter began riding along with him on slower days. He would read aloud, give some pretty interesting lectures or just answer all of John's questions.

The way they'd sometimes had a beer or two together on John's nights off, talking in hushed voices about their dead wives and impossibly brilliant children was more... personal, but no less important. He ignored the way his deputies waggled their brows at the pair of them the same way he brushed off questions from Melissa. Stiles should have been harder to duck and John shouldn't have been so damned relieved that his son was minding his own business. A quiet Stiles who wasn't poking into everyone else's business was a struggling Stiles - he'd known that since the kid was two. He was such a shitty parent for not looking into it. It was just that he'd been relieved not to have to explain or justify. John had been glad to have something that was his, and his friendship with Chris Argent was nobody else's goddamned business.

Besides, despite all the suggestive eyebrows, innuendos and jokes, nothing had come of it. The only night Chris had spent in his bed was after Allison had died, with John offering what little comfort he could to the broken, weeping man in his arms.

Then Chris was gone.

He didn't blame the man for it and hadn't asked him to stay when he'd told John his plan to leave. Losing Claudia had torn him apart inside; John didn't want to imagine what it would be like to lose Stiles too. Beacon Hills had been what killed his family and destroyed just about every reason Chris had for living - the urge to get out was understandable. Sometimes he thought that if Chris had asked, he would've quit his job and tagged along. He might've had to drag Stiles away kicking and screaming, but if Chris had asked John would have done it.

Since John wasn't an idiot, he was pretty sure that was why Chris hadn't asked. Maybe Stiles hadn't really been in control, but the Noga... Naga... Nogitsune had been wearing his son's face. That would have been a lot to ask Chris to deal with while grieving. Too much. At least he'd taken Isaac with him - John would have worried more if either his friend or the boy had been alone. So he hadn't asked Chris to stay and Chris hadn't asked him to come; it was best all the way around, really.

They kept in touch pretty regularly though. Chris' number was always near the top of the 'Recents' list in his cellphone, and he'd had Stiles help him set up a personal Instagram account to keep in touch with as well. That bonding activity had brought life into his son's eyes for the first time in weeks - he'd even _laughed_ , briefly sounding so young and carefree that it had made John _ache_. It hadn't lasted, of course. Stiles retreated almost immediately behind forced smiles and desperate-sounding chatter.

At least he'd gotten to hear that laugh once, and it had given him hope that he'd get to hear it again.

He'd also gotten that Instagram account out of it, and it helped keep him connected to Chris and Isaac both. Chris mostly put up pictures of the scenery, dramatic images that gave John a feel for where they were. Isaac was the one who posted pictures of the two of them together while they ate, drove or moved into their new apartment. John had a heavy suspicion that the pictures that were only of Chris, the ones Isaac sent directly to his phone, were candids that Chris didn't even know about. He probably should have felt guilty about having them, but it was hard to drudge up the feeling or scold Isaac for taking them when they soothed some deeply-buried part of him.

They talked a lot, but there were a lot of things they didn't talk about. The easy intimacy brought about by sitting side by side in the dark was lost over the phone and they mostly just shot the shit. John and Chris talked about everything but the important things, the things that mattered. When they _needed_ to get some of it out, when Allison's ghost loomed too large and close for Chris to breathe or John was so worried about Stiles he wanted to weep, they would text. It only happened once in a blue moon, and it wasn't near enough for John... but he didn't know how to ask for more.

He wasn't an idiot, but Claudia's death had left him so ill-equipped to handle the more emotional parts of life. So he didn't ask and neither did Chris. They kept their friendship alive but safe, starving it of all the things that would help it grow strong enough to be frightening.

It probably would have stayed that way forever if John had been a little less observant and a little bit more of an idiot. Meals that he knew for a fact Stiles couldn't cook started showing up in new, neatly kept little Tupperware containers. Sometimes, when things were especially hard or he'd had to deal with something especially supernatural in the line of duty, John would find contraband in those little containers. Sweets, red meat, things with so much salt they'd have turned Stiles into a shrieking tea kettle... his son wasn't above bribing him, but not that often and not that well.

Beyond that, Stiles was starting to look better. Not good - he was still so pale, so tired - but better. His son was still tightly wound and desperately chatty outside of the house, but once inside he settled a little. The kid started doing the dishes again, and sometimes, after John had been working late or all night, there were more clean dishes waiting to be put away than there should have been. Stiles wasn't constantly in his room when John was home anymore. They could sit and watch movies or TV, and Stiles would talk at his usual, pre-possession pace. He wasn't stilted and silent or desperately loud. He was just... Stiles, though a version who was constantly looking out at the tree that grew beside their house.

A Stiles whose window was always, _always_ open.

At first John had thought - hoped, God how he'd hoped - that it was Derek Hale climbing into Stiles' room at night. But then he'd realized that Derek hadn't been seen in town since Stiles had regained full control of himself. Besides, the younger Hale man was... less than subtle. If Derek had been 'sneaking' in, John would have known about it within a day or two. This thing, whatever it was, had been going on for at least two months - maybe longer. So Derek was, unfortunately, out. So were Isaac and even, God help him for wishing it wasn't true because the ass was only a slightly better option, Jackson - both were in another country.

Scott would have used the front door - poor kid wouldn't think to do it any other way. Scott McCall was too good to sneak in the window, even if he wasn't good enough to come visit Stiles as much as he'd used to.

Cora Hale and that Malia girl would have been concerning - he was too damned young to be a grandfather - but he'd have taken either of them. Hell, he'd have welcomed them with open arms and a box of condoms over the other option. Cora, however, was gone the same way Derek was. Malia had been brought into Scott's 'pack' - and honestly he didn't even really want to know _what_ that was all about. The pack wasn't around in the same way Scott was very obviously not around. He was pretty sure they weren't crawling into his house to comfort Stiles when dark fell, so Malia was out and Lydia - the best option, the only one he would have been truly and instantly happy about - wouldn't be sneaking around like she had something to be ashamed of.

God, he wished Stiles didn't look so much better. If it had been hurting more than helping John could have shot the only bastard left that made any sense.

Instead his son's smiles were no longer always forced. Stiles was washing dishes again and scolding him when he ate things he wasn't supposed to... some of which had been left for him in nice, neat little Tupperware containers when he'd been having a bad day. His kid was eating - more, though still not enough - and he could finally relax in his own home even if he couldn't do it anywhere else. John didn't wake up to his son screaming anymore, didn't go downstairs at two in the morning to find Stiles pacing, talking, doing jumping jacks, doing _anything_ to stay awake. Stiles slept, maybe not well if the lingering bruises under his eyes were any indication, but he slept.

John was pretty sure that if he shot the man climbing into Stiles' bedroom at night then his son would never sleep again.

With no one to talk to about it closer to home - not with Melissa trying to mother a whole pack of teens by herself, not with every other adult he knew still so ignorant - John found himself doing something that probably made him an idiot. He'd never been one before, but kids made a person do stupid things to try and protect them. Attraction and connection to someone made a person even dumber and with even less purpose. With two good (not the way Scott was 'good', but still good) reasons to be stupid, John made a phone call instead of sending a text.

"John?" Chris' voice was husky, and when he shifted John was pretty sure he heard the creak of a mattress. He had... a lot of feelings about that, so he did his best to ignore it.

"Time difference, right. Forgot. Sorry." He almost was too, especially when he heard rustling sheets.

"It's fine. Only just got into bed - hadn't quieted my mind enough to sleep yet."

"Still. I shouldn't have... I should have texted. Go to sleep and I'll--"

"Should have texted, huh?" Chris was sitting up, he was pretty sure. From the weight in his voice, he knew that a line was about to be crossed. He'd been following the same rules as John had, after all. They both knew why neither of them had asked; they both knew why they didn't talk about Allison, Stiles or their dead wives anymore.

Neither one of them was an idiot, after all.

John sighed and ran his free hand down his face, then brought it back up to scrub his fingers through his hair. He shouldn't have done this. Goddamn him.

"So it's serious then?"

"You can still go back to sleep, Chris," he said quietly, not even sure which way he wanted things to go. "I can hang up, you can go to sleep and I'll text you in the morning."

"... no. I'm... I'm up now. Tell me."

"You're not going to like it."

"I already don't like it. I still want to know what it is."

"... I think Peter Hale is sneaking in my son's bedroom window at night and I can't shoot him for it."

There was a long, long silence - long and deep enough that John thought that Chris might have done the sensible thing and just hung up. He had enough time to curse himself for ruining things between them, for destroying a friendship by reaching for more. He had enough time to remember the bloody, brutal history between the Argents and that Hales, the Hunters and the Werewolves. He had enough time to remember the girl who maybe could have brought that feud to a screeching halt if only his possessed son hadn't had her killed.

Before he had enough time to hang up himself, however, he heard Chris start to laugh. It wasn't a nice sound, not at first; it was the laugh of a man who wouldn't let himself cry. It was painful to hear and probably hell on his throat, and John wished he could be there to wrap his arms Chris just tight enough to hold him together, like he had on the one night they'd been together in his bed. He wished he'd never called, wished that Chris had just hung up and gone back to bed.

He wished he'd been brave and stupid enough to have asked Chris if he and Stiles could tag along.

There wasn't much he could do over the phone; he could only be there and make sure he was breathing slow and loud enough for Chris to hear and latch on to the sound. That awful laugh continued for a while, but slowly - so slowly, the way tender shoots broke through a seed and then soil - it turned into something different. Eventually, amazingly, Chris was _actually_ laughing. There was real humor in the sound, bittersweet maybe but still real enough that after a while John started to laugh right along with him.

God, their lives were so ridiculous. John had never been a devout Christian, but he did try to believe. He'd tried so hard after Claudia was taken from him too soon, tried even harder when their son ripped away his blinders and forced him to see the world for what it really was. Suddenly, as he sat laughing with Chris Argent - an actual werewolf hunter - over the phone, John hoped like hell that God wasn't real and the Bible was only bedtime stories. He hoped with every bone in his body because if God was real than He had one sick, twisted sense of humor.

Perversely, the thought only made him laugh all the more.

When they'd finally calmed down enough that they were only panting and letting out the occasional chuckle, John was surprised to find that he felt a little bit better. Not a lot, but better - the same way Stiles was eating a little more and looking just a little less pale. "Hell, I really can't shoot him," he muttered, mostly to himself.

"I could," Chris answered anyway, still sounding a little breathless. "Just scared the crap outta Isaac, I think. You owe him an apology."

"I'll mail him a scarf."

"... maybe you could give it to him in person."

"What? Chris, I can't--"

"No," the man agreed, because of course he understood what John meant. Back when Chris had first left, he could have quit, pulled up his roots and taken his son away from Beacon Hills. Now though... now it was too late to run, at least for him, at least for now. "But I can. Do you want me to come back?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. Not what I asked. Do you?"

"I can't ask you to do that, Chris."

"Again, not the question. Do you want me to come back?"

"Not if you're not ready to come back," he hedged, feeling their relationship teetering on the edge of a precarious cliff. "You left for a reason."

"John."

"Yes, okay? I want you to come back. I wish I'd asked you to stay or that I'd gone with you, but since I can't have either I want you to come back. There. Happy now?" John knew he sounded angry - too angry, and it had come out of nowhere - but really he was scared. What if Chris knew and still didn't come back? Even more terrifying was the possibility that he might.

"I don't know if Isaac will want to go back. There's... the local Alpha is... pleasant," and oh, did it sound like it pained Chris to admit it. "The pack's been good for him. For us. I hate that they've been so good for _us_ ," he admitted in a hoarse whisper. "It would be easier if I could hate them. Gerard and Kate were insane, but things were so easy for them."

"I prefer complicated, I think," John ventured cautiously. He knew the history, knew the tragedy and the players and all the backstory, but he hadn't lived it. His vague impressions of Gerard and Kate had been formed before his world was turned upside down; he didn't know what to think about those impressions now that everything was different. It wasn't personal for him the way it was for Chris. Still - the story he'd gotten from Stiles left him with the pretty firm opinion that they were not the sort of people you wanted to aspire to be like.

"So do I. We make quite the pair, Sheriff." It was hard to deny the way those words made him feel, but John gave it his all anyway. It was _not_ the time. "Anyway. I don't know if Isaac will come with me. The Alpha here has offered to make him pack. I think it'd be good for him. I'd miss him like hell, but..."

"You don't have to come back."

"And you _can't_ come to me. We're both smart guys, John. I think we both know where this kind of complicated is headed, and after..." he stopped when his voice cracked and cleared his throat. Knowing exactly what had stopped his voice and what was hanging in the air between them, John felt tears burning behind his eyelids. Life was just so damn short, and it packed such a wallop when it decided to knock you down. "I don't want to waste any more time."

"Do you need me to set up an apartment or a house or anything?"

"Let me talk about this with Isaac, figure out what he wants to do. You should... you should talk to Stiles."

"... yeah. I should.

"And if you need someone to shoot Peter Hale when I get there, I'll only use wolfsbane bullets if you tell me to."

~.~.~

It had been months since John opened the door and peeked into his son's room while he slept. One night he'd just gotten a feeling that he didn't need to, and Stiles hadn't woken him up by screaming until his throat was raw. A few days later he'd gotten his first bribe - a cheeseburger found its way onto his desk at the station while he was in the restroom. So had begun a pattern of looking away because Stiles was _sleeping through the night_ and _eating_ again. Not well, not enough, but it was _something_. He purposefully didn't look, didn't ask, and he let Peter Hale take care of his son and leave him healthy meals and little bribes in return.

So he wasn't surprised, exactly, when he eased Stiles' door open at four in the morning to see Peter Hale in his seventeen-year-old son's bed. What he _was_ surprised by was the way they were both clearly dressed - though he didn't like that Peter's jeans were on the floor one little bit - and the way Peter was holding his son, cradling him like he was something precious. The man's eyes glowed blue as they turned towards the door, but that faded quick enough when he realized who had entered. The warning rumble in his throat, however, did _not_ trail off, and John wasn't sure if he was impressed or irritated.

"I'm not kicking you out," he whispered. Mouthed almost, really, because he didn't want to wake Stiles and Peter's hearing was good beyond the realm of belief. "But we need to talk. Instead of leaving today, come downstairs." John didn't wait for any kind of reply, just carefully shut the door behind him and walked away.

He had to wait almost an hour before Peter made his cautious way into the kitchen. At least the man was wearing pants, thank God, and he had the courtesy to at least pretend to be wary of the gun laying on the table. "Sheriff," he greeted, sounding both unsure and intrigued. "I wasn't sure you knew."

"Of course I knew. I'm not an idiot."

"And yet you didn't kick me out. How... interesting." Peter looked down at the gun then locked their gazes again, one eyebrow lifted and a rather smarmy smile on his face. "Are you going to shoot me, Sheriff? That's very stereotypical of you. I don't think Stiles would like it very much."

"No, he wouldn't," John agreed with a shrug. "Which is the only reason I haven't filled you up with enough wolfsbane bullets to make sure your ass stayed dead this time. He's too young for you."

"For now," was the answer he got, something that might have been the start of respect in Peter's eyes. "I'm not having sex with your son, Sheriff."

"But you want to."

"I'm... intrigued by the possibility of having him someday. When he's older and can make the choice. I'd prefer it if he went off to college first, found his feet... I wouldn't want him as anything less than an equal, I promise you that. I've no desire to tether him to me so I can restrict and control the way he grows. For now I just want..." he trailed off, then gave a soft huff that might have been a laugh. "I just want him to feel like he can close his eyes without being afraid."

John had been pretty sure (or he'd hoped, goddamn how he'd hoped) that the two of them weren't having sex. He'd been afraid Peter might be pressing the issue, and he'd sure as hell be keeping an eye out for that sort of thing in the future, but... he believed the werewolf, shockingly enough. After seeing the way he held Stiles, guarding his sleep because the kid was so damn scared of losing himself again, John was willing to believe that Peter really was only trying to help.

"So no sex - good. I'd have had to arrest you and I don't think any of us would have enjoyed that."

"No, we certainly would not have."

"Why did you start sneaking into my son's room in the dead of night?"

"... because he was suffering and no one else saw. Because he needed me. Because he's _pack_." Peter was clearly reluctant and probably still telling the truth despite himself. From his mouth the word 'pack' had so much more meaning, so much more weight than when Scott or anyone in the McCall pack said it. When Peter Hale said _pack_ , it felt like it meant everything.

"I don't see the rest of the pack breaking into my house."

Peter had a look on his face, one that suggested someone had just taken a huge, smelly shit right in front of him and then left it there. "You mean Scott and the other puppies? They are _not_ pack, not to me and probably not to Stiles. Barely to each other. The ones that are werewolves are terrible at it, you see," he added, carefully finding a seat and taking it. That was good - that made it almost felt like a conversation they might have for pleasure. "And those who are not werewolves don't know enough about being a pack to make up for it. If McCall would stop blaming Stiles for things beyond his control your son could probably turn it into a real pack. Left to his own devices, however, McCall is useless. Would you mind terribly if I started a pot of coffee?"

John didn't mention that Peter had only just sat down - he had a feeling the gesture had been premeditated and very purposeful, as was this new question. He didn't know Peter well, mostly what Stiles had told him, but he was going to trust his gut on this one. He was going to believe that Peter was trying to make a good impression, that the quite-possibly psychotic werewolf wanted John to like him. John chose to believe that because of that, because of their mutual love (God, did Hale _love_ his son?) for Stiles, Peter was telling him the truth. Even more than that, John chose to believe Peter was telling him more of the truth than he would have given to anyone else.

All of that meant John _really_ couldn't shoot him, and that he probably shouldn't let Chris do it either.

"Be my guest. You know where everything is. ... you can take a mug up to Stiles when it's done, if you'd like." Peter, who'd been about to stand up, went very, very still.

"Sheriff?"

"I don't know you very well, Hale, and what I do know I don't much like. But you say my son is pack, and you say it like it means something. Stiles has been better since you started climbing into his bedroom and I won't take that away from him. If you're around more often during the day maybe he could get better still. So this is me saying that you're allowed to be here. You're allowed to take care of him. If you have sex with him before he's an adult I will cut your balls off with piano wire coated in wolfsbane." John paused to watch the threat hit home and was gratified by the way Peter's eyes went briefly wide before he swallowed hard and nodded. He took another moment to think about his son, who he was, and sighed. "If he kisses you I won't kill you, but I don't want to hear about it either - I'll just trust that you won't let things go too far."

"Stiles isn't... since the Nogitsune he hasn't been very interested in sex. He hasn't smelled like arousal," Peter clarified quickly, perhaps seeing the way John's face turned to stone. "He always used to smell like... well. Like a teenage boy. Now... nothing. I doubt he'll be kissing anyone for a long while yet."

"Still. I'm trusting you, Peter. I'm trusting you with my son - with _Stiles_." The man's eyes went a little wide again, then flashed that glowing, eerie blue. "I don't think I need to explain to you what that means to me."

"No. You don't."

"Then you also won't be angry or offended when I tell you that if you break that trust, if you hurt my kid, I will make you wish that you were back in the fire that Kate started. You will beg me to kill you before I'm done with you, and I won't even need wolfsbane, mountain ash or any other fancy Hunter trick to get you there. Do you understand me?"

"... like your son, you would make a _magnificent_ wolf. But yes, Sheriff. Your message has been heard and processed. I promise you my intent is... perhaps less than pure, but I don't want to hurt Stiles. Not ever. I'd kill myself before I did. I'd also happily kill anyone who harmed even a single hair on his beautiful head, which is a trait I suspect we have in common. ... I can really take him coffee?"

"Yes, Peter. You can take him coffee." It was almost funny how much the idea seemed to perk Peter right up. When the man passed his chair, John lifted a hand - maybe to clasp his wrist in a 'thank you' or lightly clap his back. He'd never know, because the werewolf flinched away from the possible contact like he'd been struck. It didn't sit right with him, not at all; flinching like that was rarely a sign of good things. Peter sneered at him after, but he seemed a bit shaken; John had just rolled his eyes while thinking hard.

He waited until the coffee was almost ready, then stood and headed for the counter. Peter tensed a little, but John ignored that as he snagged three mugs and set them down. Moving slowly, telegraphing his intent as best he could, he set a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Leave enough for me, please. I'm going to go shower before Stiles gets there first. And Peter... thank you for helping my son." John squeezed down gently before pulling back, enjoying the flabbergasted look on the other man's face. Partly to fuck with him and partly out of kindness, he decided to give a warning. "Chris Argent is heading back this way. Isaac's not coming with him - found a pack the way you mean it, I think. Chris is going to be staying here for a few days, maybe longer, and it probably won't be easy - not for Stiles and not for him. I'd appreciate it if you could help me keep the peace instead of wallowing in any grudge you have against him."

It was like Peter's face had turned to marble, all expression gone and leaving him looking hard and unforgiving. "... I will... try. For Stiles."

"For Stiles," John agreed softly. Halfway out of the kitchen he paused and looked back, studying the man who seemed to be saving his son. "Does he know how you feel about him? That you're waiting for him?"

"Most likely. He's not an idiot, after all."


End file.
